


Sometimes it Makes Me Wonder

by shippingParaphernalia



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: All The Ships, All the AUs basically, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Elementary School, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Middle School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Normal High School, Bad Jamilton, Bisexual Alexander Hamilton, But not in a good way, Hamiltots, Historical References, I've never written James Madison before, James Madison is precious, Jamilton - Freeform, Jefferson and Hamilton are bad at knowing what they want, Kind of like Madison/Laurens, Madison POV, Madison is sick 24/7, Madison/Laurens, Multi, My smol gay babies, Nonbinary Lafayette, Oh and before I forget, Oh and remember those ships I said were onesided, Onesided JeffMads, Onesided Lams, Only as friends though - Freeform, Pining, Sad Laurens, Sad Madison, Seriously wtf you guys, Sick Madison, They're not really, Thomas is a snarky lil prick, Yeah it's complicated, and underappreciated, as friends though, enjoy, jefferson/angelica, mullette, this should be fun
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-25
Updated: 2017-04-07
Packaged: 2018-09-20 23:24:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9520652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shippingParaphernalia/pseuds/shippingParaphernalia
Summary: Even with his constantly sore ears and perpetually stuffed nose, Madison could always tell when Jefferson got home.A fumbling with keys would first be heard. Then, a bam! bam! bam! as his roommate attempted to knock down the door with naught but his foot. After realizing that the door would not succumb to these (admittedly valiant) efforts, finally, with a pleasantly resounding 'JESUS CHRIST'---The door would fly open and Jefferson would come tumbling in. He'd then pick himself up, threaten to sue all doorkind ever, turn to Madison and say, with a look of pure outrage inscribed on his features:'So, how was your day?'Madison always would say it was fine. Then he'd go make them both a cup of tea.[In which we get to see Madison's relationship with Jefferson evolve, starting from kindergarten and leading up to present day college.]Comments are better than kudos, and appreciated! <3





	1. Kindergarten

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, all you lovely amphibians that dared to click on this!  
> I have suddenly found myself head over heels in JeffMads appreciation, so I decided to try my take on writing some. There's also some background Mullette and Lams, because I couldn't resist.  
> Anyway!  
> I had started this off as a oneshot, but then decided that it needed at least three chapters to develop -w-''  
> Sorry this is so bad--lately I feel like all my already limited writing skills have evaporated into thin air. It doesn't help that I'm half asleep while writing this. ._.  
> Enjoy!
> 
> -Georgie
> 
> ***

Even at five years old, Jefferson hid nothing. His emotions, his thoughts, his opinions... he let them be known to the world, and damn them all if they disagreed. Even at five years old, he'd carried around that ridiculous white handkerchief which immediately flew up to his mouth whenever someone nearby him did so much as yawn.

Even at five years old, he was an 100% utter germophobe with no verbal filter.

Even at five years old, Madison was short and sickly. He had a hacking cough, a runny nose and two bleary eyes that regarded his surroundings uneasily. Even at five years old he stayed quiet, picking his battles with care and trying to settle debates peacefully.

Even at five years old, he hadn't had the good luck to steer clear of the magenta mess known as Thomas Jefferson.

It had been early morning at the time. Too early. The new kindergartners trickled in sleepily, looking for people to sit near and already missing their parents. More than one started to cry, only to be quickly ushered away by the teacher and soothed.

James, ironically, might have been the most energetic kid there. Fitful nights were common to him, and waking up early was no stranger either. So he sat, amiably wiping his nose with his sleeve, and waited for someone to sit next to him.

Nobody did.

James still wasn't bothered. There could be plenty of excuses on why no one had sat next to him yet. Maybe they didn't relish the idea of being so close to the back of the room. Maybe they already had someone in mind they wanted to sit with. Maybe they just hadn't noticed him yet.

When class started however, with the teacher calling everyone's names and the kids yapping merrily, James started to feel a little uncomfortable. He could feel peoples pitying glances. 

That's when the door flew open.

The first thing James registered about the newcomer was his hair.

It was... well... huge. Huge, and black, and fluffy. A bit like a bush. This kid probably needed no pillow when he went to sleep with a head of hair like that.

Along with that _minor detail_ , the kid was also dark skinned, with bright black eyes, a magenta sweater and a cocksure grin. He swaggered in importantly, practically preening from all the attention everyone was giving him.

"Sorry I'm late, miss," he said to the teacher. His English had a slight lilt to it, one James couldn't identify. "My daddy was stuck in traffic."

"It's fine," the teacher said indulgently. "But please try to be on time tomorrow. What's your name?"

"Thomas Jefferson. I can spell it if you want. My daddy taught me how to."

"That won't be needed, Tom."

" _Thomas._ T-H-O-M-A-S--"

Everyone gaped in admiration. Not only did this child prodigy know how to spell his name, he had just back-talked the teacher! A few giggles broke out.

"Alright, Thomas, that's enough. Good job. Why don't you go sit next to..."

The teacher looked around thoughtfully. She'd dealt with Thomas's kind before: smart-mouthed arrogant little ones who thought that because they could spell and count slightly better than everyone else they were rightfully kings of the classroom. She needed to put him next to someone quiet who could temper that... Someone who wouldn't stand for that kind of attitude...

Her eye caught on the little boy at the back of the room. He'd hardly spoken a word since he'd first arrived, just snuffled and sneezed a few times. The teacher's heart went out to him. Maybe he needed someone to give him confidence just as much as Thomas needed someone to take some away from him.

"....James," she concluded. "Why don't you go sit next to James?"

James felt everyone's eyes flick towards him. He instinctively shrunk down in his seat.

"Yes, miss," Thomas said. 

He sauntered to the back and flippantly tossed his stuff onto James's side of the table. James didn't bother trying to shove it away. He was torn between feeling relief at not being alone anymore, and mortified that his partner ended up being a loudmouth with a superiority complex. Now surely everyone would stare at him... and judge him... and not want to ever sit next to him...

In fact, James got himself so worked up over it that when the teacher began roll call, he started to cough.

Generally, there were three stages to James's sickness: The drippy nose (which occurred 24/7 and consisted of just what it sounded like), the coughing (which also happened consistently and usually resulted in him hurting his throat) and the sneezing (rarer, but more annoying to deal with.)

It was all pretty straightforward, really. Except that coughing was then split into two groups: Stressed coughing and regular coughing. Regular coughing was annoying, but tolerable. Stressed coughing however could go on for minutes at a time, and never failed to irritate everyone around James-- thus stressing him out more, and making his cough worsen.

Sitting next to Thomas brought on a panic round of the latter.

"Aaron Burr?"

"Here."

"*Cough cough cough.*"

"George Frederick the Third?"

"Here!"

"*Cough cough cough cough cough.*"

"Thomas Jefferson?"

Thomas sent James a nasty look as he raised his hand. "Here,  but can I move?"

The teacher didn't look up from her paper. "No. Jamie, do you need a strepsil?"

James tried not to choke on his own spit.  _Easy does it_ , he could hear his mom saying.  _Calm down there, steam engine._

"No, thank you," he managed to say after a second.

 The teacher nodded. "If you need anything, just let me know."

"Can I move?" Thomas asked again.

"No, To-- Thomas."

"But he's spitting all over me. It's like I'm at a waterfall or something."

 James flushed bright red as the surrounding kids started to laugh. The teacher frowned. "Thomas, that wasn't nice. Apologize to Jamie."

"Sorry, _Jamie_ ," Thomas said, mimicking the teacher's tone. James just nodded and tried to force away the heat on his cheeks. The teacher, missing the sarcasm, turned away in satisfaction and went back to reading the rollcall, while Thomas took the opportunity to slide his chair away from James a bit and pull out of seemingly nowhere a white handkerchief.

"Can you not?" he hissed, flapping the scrap of paper in James's direction. James flinched.

"Not what?"

"Get your spit and snot everywhere. It's gross. My daddy says that's how _germs_ are spread." He said 'germs' like another kid might say 'zombies.'

James shifted uncomfortably in his seat, sneezed, and wiped his nose with his sleeve. "Sorry."

"No, you're not. You're still doing it."

"I can't help it. Sorry."

"Yeah, I noticed that. Use a handkerchief or something, dummy."

"I don't have one. Sorry."

"And stop saying sorry!"

"Thomas, Jamie," the teacher called out disapprovingly. "Do I hear trouble?"

"No, miss," Thomas immediately answered, his voice the epitome of angelic. "Me 'n James were just talking about stuff."

The teacher shook her head. Maybe, she reflected ruefully, placing them together hadn't been her best idea. "Alright, well, save it for break okay? Right now is classtime."

James tried not to cough.

~*~

The rest of the day had proceeded in a similar fashion. The teacher had partnered them up on various exercises, but in most cases James had ended pulling both of their workhaul-- Thomas refused to go too close to him lest he 'catch a germ.'

When he wasn't freaking out over James's cold, he liked to boast about the various places he'd been. He was half-French apparently, which explained that weird lilt to his voice that James had preciously noticed. Sometimes he slipped into French just to impress.

"You're a bit of a _perdant,_ aren't you?" he'd remarked at some point. James had been trying to cut a piece of paper in two perfect halves (and failing miserably) and it was clear Thomas felt no inclination to help.

James hadn't asked what a  _perdant_ was. He wasn't sure he wanted to know. But Thomas for once seemed pleased at his silence, and as the quiet enveloped them both, it almost seemed different this time. Companionable. 

"You keep on sniffing," he noticed a few minutes later. This was typical. No matter how nice the quiet, Thomas apparently could never stand it for too long (quite the contrast to James, who had grown up with it so much it felt more like an old friend at this point.)

"I'm sick," James said.

Thomas shook his head, making his curls bob up and down like waves in the sea. "I mean you keep on sniffing and sniffing and not blowing your nose. You should go do that."

James felt bewildered. "I should go not blow my nose?"

"Dummy. Go _blow_ it."

"It's okay," James said, suddenly struck with the realization that Thomas wanted him not only to get up in the middle of class but also walk past the dozens of staring eyes and ask -- _ask!_ \-- the teacher for a handkerchief. "I'm good."

"Liar," Thomas said. "When you're sick, you blow your nose. My daddy told me so, and he's always right."

James tried to stem the anxious coughs bubbling up in him. "I'm fine."

"Yeah, right. You need a tissue."

"I don't have one."

"Go _ask."_

"I don't want to."

Thomas looked at him with dark eyes narrowed down to slits. James hastily looked away. For a five year old, Thomas certainly pulled off intimidation.

"Oh, I got it," Thomas finally declared. He leaned back in his chair, an air of scorn surrounding him.  "You're _scared."_

 James didn't answer, and pretended to go back to cutting his paper. He could feel Thomas's gaze drilling into him. 

"Scaredy-cat."

James mapped the line of cutting in his head.

"Scaredy-scaredy-cat."

He traced it with a finger, and then picked up his paper to try. This would be his third attempt yet. The project would probably go much faster if his coordination wasn't so poor, but as Thomas refused to take over, there wasn't much else to do.

"Scaredy-scaredy-scaredy-cat!"

Huh. The paper was actually coming out pretty even.

Well, it was, until Thomas kicked him under the table. The scissors dipped and snipped off part of the wrong direction. James felt his eyes widen.

"Why'd you do that?" he said. Upset. "I was almost done."

Thomas had been wearing a smug look, but at this question, it slipped right off into a mask of defense.

"You weren't answerin'," he mumbled, crossing his arms awkwardly. "When someone calls you a scaredy-cat, you have to answer 'no I'm not, you are.'"

Being only a five year old, James' face had yet to discover some of the expressions and emotions that older people got to experience, but now, at this perplexing and utterly offending sentence, he could feel his forehead furrow and his mouth curl into a scowl.

He'd never felt aggression like this before. It was a whole new sensation.

"That's stupid," he said. "Why should I call you a scaredy-cat? It's pretty plain you're not."

Thomas's defense was still on: "Yeah, I'm not, but since I said you are, you have to tell me I am. It's the rules."

"Well, I'm not doing them."

"You have to. They're the _rules._ Don't be stupid--"

"Thomas, _shut up_."

Silence.

James's gaze traveled downwards, suddenly ashamed. He'd never meant to say that. Now Thomas would hate him even more... and what if he told the teacher what James had said? He coughed once, shallowly, and tried to work out an apology. 

Then he felt something being pressed into his hand.

He looked up. It was a handkerchief. The same one Thomas had brandished at him earlier, as if trying to swat away James's cold.

"Take it," Thomas said nonchalantly. "Use it to blow your nose or something. Since you're such a scaredy-cat."

James blinked at him owlishly before doing as suggested. "Thanks."

"Yeah, yeah. Now give me the scissors."

 ~*~


	2. Elementary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which James becomes a yandere and Maria "pretty cute" Cosway appears/disappears from Thomas's life.  
> Also, Thomas's wrist is now broken.  
> Thanks James.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so for some reason this story had a much better reaction than expected?? Seriously, I don't know how to thank all you lovely people for commenting. I'm so sorry for keeping you waiting, and all I can say is I hope you stay tuned for more <3  
> Sooo... anyway!  
> I started to plug in my historical references in this chapter. More specifically, Maria Cosway, who Jefferson had a bit of a crush on during his time in Paris. I had to change some stuff to make it fit in with my story, but hopefully no one will be too nitpicky about the inaccuracies littered here and there.  
> Comments are appreciated!  
> Enjoy!
> 
> -Georgie

By fourth grade, a routine between the two boys had been established.

Since both of their fathers, as relatively liberal-minded (and, to be honest, aloof) adults, had no problem with letting their sons to walk to school alone, James would always make his way to Thomas's place and wait ten minutes or so before his frizzy-haired friend emerged. Then, together, they'd make their way to class.

Thomas was way too energetic in the mornings.

Well, okay. Thomas was way too energetic, period. But in the mornings it was even more prominent. He'd bounce out of the house, a blur of color and light and life, and would immediately launch into some ridiculously over-complicated story involving an event that had happened to him three years ago.

James, in turn, would quietly nod at Thomas's breathing intervals. (There didn't seem to be many; Thomas was just non-stop.)

When they got to school, he would grab James's hand and drag him into the classroom.

"If we walked at your pace, we'd be late every day," he'd claim. "I'm just helping you hurry up."

"I don't need help," James would grumble, trying to keep his composure. Whenever Thomas took his hand like that, it did something to his stomach. A fluttery sort of something. Like a trapped bird was trying to escape. Probably just a side-effect of his constant cold. "I can walk fine by myself. And anyway, I'm sick. You're gonna catch a germ."

Thomas's grip would lighten, but he still wouldn't let go, and James would marvel at how far he'd come in the last five years: Thomas didn't use to do so much as breathe in his direction for the first couple of weeks, yet here he was now, engaging a hand-holding.

"You're always sick," he'd finally say. "I've gotten used to it."

In class, they sat next to each other. Whenever James would start to cough, Thomas would glance over and wait for reassurance that everything was okay. If James couldn't give it, he'd raise his hand and say, "Miss/Mister, James isn't feeling well. He should go to the nurse for a coughing pill thing." It wasn't much, but James was pathetically grateful for it.

To repay him, he offered math tutoring. Thomas accepted.

It wasn't that Thomas needed the hep. If anything, he might've been better than James. (Which would make sense. Thomas was perfect. James was... somewhat compromised.) He just had more of a literary mind. His essays were woven together so skillfully, so intricately, they resembled tapestries more than they did words scratched onto paper.

When it came to mathematics, Thomas could spend half an hour staring at a math problem and making up a story on how the two numbers came to meet each other. James had to patiently remind him every now and then that math wasn't about fantasies. Then Thomas would immediately get going.

Such were the lengths of James's math tutoring. There really wasn't much tutoring involved. In fact, it was more about James being Thomas's alarm clock. Several times he considered quitting, but when he said so to Thomas, his friend wouldn't let him: 

"You're my anchor. I need you around so I don't fly away."

"No, you don't," James had argued. "Poetry aside, you'd be fine without me poking you every few seconds to tell you to get on track."

"Yeah, right. You really wanna risk my grade for that?"

James ended up staying. Thomas had a way of looking at him with those dumb shining eyes and that constant grin that never failed to make James give in. 

~*~

Maria Cosway appeared at their school in the middle of year. Mid-January.

James could still remember seeing her for the first time. 

He'd been sitting next to Thomas as usual, taking notes for the both of them because Thomas's hand was feeling sore or something. It was a half-baked excuse, but James pretended to buy it anyway. His pencil was still scratching across the page when the new girl walked in.

Next to him, Thomas straightened up.

"Class," the teacher announced, "I'd like you to meet our newest student, Maria Cosway. She just moved here from Paris, so her English isn't too fluent, but I know that you'll do the best to help her improve." He scanned the room. "Maria, you can go sit next to--"

"Me," Thomas interrupted. James looked at him in shock, but Thomas avoided his gaze. "I know French fluently. I'll translate for Maria."

"Excellent," the teacher beamed. "Maria, go pull up a chair for yourself." He mimed picking up a chair. "You're sitting next to Thomas."

Maria nodded. She was a pretty little girl, with golden brown curls and porcelain colored skin. When she walked, she tread carefully, like each step was a risk she was frightened to take. Thomas's eyes followed her, awestruck.

James went back to writing.

" _Salut,"_ he heard Thomas whisper. _"Bienvenue dans la classe."_

 _"Merci_ ," whispered back Maria. Her voice matched the rest of her: soft, breathy. Thomas licked his lips before launching into another exchange that had Maria laughing and playfully swatting at his arm.

James glowered. 

"Hey, Jemmy." After fifteen minutes, Thomas's eyes were focused back on him again. "Do me a favor?"

"Depends," James answered. He could feel Maria's gaze lingering on him, and wished she wasn't here. 'Jemmy' was a nickname just he and Thomas knew about. Having her around too made it less special somehow.

"Okay, so, since Marie's French, she can't really take English notes. Can you?"

"I don't know French," James snapped. _Marie._ "Why don't you just share and translate your notes for her? Also, if your hand is feeling better, you can continue taking them yourself."

Thomas's lips flipped downwards so he looked like a kicked puppy. James felt a twinge of guilt but ignored it, and went back to writing-- his own notes this time.

"Are you mad at me, Jemmy?"

"No."

"'Cause you look kinda mad."

"I'm not."

"Is your throat okay? Are you sick?"

James ran a hand through his hair. It wasn't hard: his mom always insisted on cutting it short, almost military-style. "I'm fine, Thomas. Go back to talking to _Marie_." Dang it. That had come across much more bitterly than he had wanted it to.

Thomas's eyes narrowed. "Oh my god. You're jealous."

"Am not." James tried to force away the heat rising in his face.

"Are too.

"Am not."

"Are too."

James coughed. "Am not."

Thomas paused, maybe because of the cough. Even though he seemed like a self-centered narcissist, Thomas sometimes could be remarkably empathetic of other peoples needs. Maybe he could tell that more pressing would lead to one of James's stressed-coughing fits.

"Fine, whatever. But you shouldn't be jealous, Jem. I still like you. It's just that... Marie's like... she's like... a _girl._ And she's pretty cute, right?"

James hummed noncommittally. 

"So, yeah. Wish me luck with her instead of getting all hissy."

"I'm not hissy," James muttered, but Thomas had already turned away.

~*~

What happened after school was James's fault.

But after four hours of hearing nonstop French whispering, after having to deal with giggles and flirtations and teasings between the boy he called his best friend and the girl he'd started to despise... well, he was pretty sure anyone in his shoes would have done the same thing.

Still, it was hard to choke back tears as the ambulance sped away.

School had ended. The children were dismissed. Everyone left the premises talking, huddled up in groups of twos and threes. James and Thomas would have normally been amongst them, but nooo. Now that 'pretty cute' Maria was here, she and Thomas refused to leave each other's side. This left James trailing after them dismally.

He glared at Maria as they spoke.

What was so great about her, anyway? Sure, she was good-looking. So what? She probably wasn't even that interesting. And that drawing she had made for Thomas during class? That was completely pathetic. James could definitely draw better. Anyone could. 

What on earth did Thomas see in her?

He was still turning over these grudging thoughts in his head as he followed them down the school's steps and into the yard. That's when he noticed Maria's hand. It had started to move away from her side, moving towards Thomas's. 

James's stomach dropped.

Thomas was still talking, he hadn't yet noticed Maria's hand-holding attempt. But when he did... James dreaded to think what would happen. They'd start spending even more time together. They'd start dating. Thomas would forget James existed, and it'd be back to square one.

James blamed his panicked self for what happened next.

One moment Maria was shyly attempting to take Thomas's hand. The next Thomas was on the ground screaming, and Maria was crying. Maybe James had tripped him too hard? Was that possible? Whatever the case, James's leg had been responsible.

Thomas had stumbled. He'd fallen over, and (as any logical person would do in this situation) he'd put his hands in front of him to cushion his fall.

He'd broken his right wrist. And it was all James's fault.

Maria ran off to call a teacher. James was left alone, watching his friend screaming and writhing on the ground. His mouth tasted like sawdust.

"Thomas," he said hollowly. "I'm so sorry, I..."

"Stupid rocks," Thomas sobbed. "Stupid, stupid, stupid idiot rocks!"

"...Rocks?"

Thomas sat up, his face teary, his wrist stuck at an odd angle. James felt queasy just looking at it. "Y-yeah. I tripped, and now--Owwww!"

James wasn't proud of what he did next, but he'd already messed up so badly that it probably wouldn't hurt to dig himself even deeper into the already-too-deep hole of guilt he'd made for himself. "Actually, I think Maria tripped you."

He wasn't sure if Thomas had heard him at first. He was still crying like there was no tomorrow, and now the teacher was rushing over too, trailed by Maria. But after a minute, a stormy look appeared in his eyes. "That _snake!_ "

After that event, three drastic changes occurred.

1) Thomas was rushed off to the hospital.

2) He never spoke to Maria again.

3) And James hated himself. Not just for what he said about Maria, not just for deforming his best friend's wrist for life. But also for the cruel pleasure he got in knowing that Maria was safely out of the picture, and that Thomas was still his.

He continued to write his notes for him for the rest of the year.

~*~


	3. Middle School (7th)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas moves to France, James becomes Madison, and laMS APPEARS :'D  
> Also, James gets a small crush on Hammy-- pls don't kill me ._.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okAY Y'ALL  
> This is where everything gets a little more complicated. This chapter features very little fifth grade, a little sixth grade, and mainly seventh. The next chapter will be all about eight (and a little nine.) I don't know about all your school systems, but for this fic, 6th/7th/8th are Middle School and 9/10/11/12 are High-School. And then college!  
> This chapter took way too long and I'm sorry ;-;  
> Please stick around with your kind comments!! It makes my day whenever I see them ;w;
> 
> -Georgie

"I might be gone for a bit."

The words had been spoken casually, so casually that James nearly shrugged them off. But there was something in Thomas's face that had made him ask: "How long?" 

Thomas shrugged. "I dunno. A few years."

"Years?"

"Yeah. Dad got a job in France and he wants us to go with him. We're staying with my aunt in Paris."

James tried to wrap his mind around that. "How many years?"

"Y'know. A few." Thomas wouldn't meet his gaze. "Around five."

He'd left a week later, leaving behind nothing but a promise to be back, a phone number, and a quickly fading warmth from where he had hugged James.

~*~

That had happened at the end of fourth grade. Not much had happened since then.

Fifth grade came and went.

Middle school started.

Kids came (Hercules Mulligan, the Schuyler Sisters) and left (George Frederick III).

James sat idly through it all. He approached no one, and, now that no exciting Thomas stuck by his side, no one approached him either.

To pass the time, he dedicated himself to his homework. The library had become a second home to him. He devoured books, researched topics and wrote too-long essays-- if the teacher asked for one page, James would turn in two. His coughing fits had started to become more frequent thanks to all the stress and library's dust-- Thomas would probably box his ears for his poor self-care.

He tried not to think about Thomas.

But then seventh grade came along, and the world turned upside down.

It must have been around November. James had been studying in the library when his paper was suddenly darkened by a looming shadow. He looked up.

The first thing he noticed about the kid wasn't his hair (it was long-- much longer than normal) or the crazy freckles dotting his arms, legs and face. It wasn't the way he smiled, like he'd won first place in the lottery and was ready to donate all his money to poor people. It wasn't even the 'black lives matter' t-shirt he was wearing.

It was the kid _next_ to him.

Or, more specifically, the way the first kid looked at him.

On the outside, he wasn't anything special. A caramel tinge to his skin, dark hair pulled in a ponytail. He did have nice eyes, sure, but nothing to warrant all the attention the other boy was giving him.

"Alexander Hamilton," he announced. As brisk as the autumn air outside. "My name is Alexander Hamilton."

"Laurens," added the freckled kid. He was talking to James, but his eyes remained trained on the other kid. He wore the expression of someone used to being the silver to someone else's gold, someone not only used to it but who valued it-- loved it, even. James swallowed. He knew that expression well. That was himself looking at Thomas.

" _John_ Laurens," corrected the kid. Alexander. "The closest friend I've got." He tilted his head sideways to scan over James's paper. "The American Revolution? We're not going to be doing that until high-school."

Before James could answer, Alexander had moved closer to him for a better look. He was practically sitting on top of James at this point. James turned red.

Laurens laughed. "Alex, get off, or I have the feeling this guy'll be filing a restraining order against you."

It took a moment for the words to register with Alexander, but after a few seconds he pulled back into another chair. "You make a good point. Sorry, bro. Your writing is just really good."

James blinked. His writing? Good? Since when? Sure, teachers had said so in the past, but he'd never really believed them before. He went to shrug the statement off, but what came out of his mouth instead was: "My name's James Madison."

Alexander grinned brightly. "Good to know. That just so happens to be why Laurens and I are here to begin with. We're both new this year, so we decided to go around the grade and introduce ourselves instead of letting the teacher do it."

James struggled to find his manners. It had been way too long since he had talked to a kid his age before-- any kid, actually. "Where are you from?"

"I'm from South Carolina," Laurens said. "And Alex got here from the Caribbean just a month or two ago."

"I'm on scholarship," Alexander preened.

Laurens rolled his eyes good-naturedly. "Watch it. Madison's gonna think you're a show-off."

Alexander pretended to clutch at his heart: "Gracious, you're right! And what was the advice of today? 'Talk less, smile more?'"

Both of them erupted into laughter. James blinked, partly at being referred to with his last name (he'd always just been James), but mainly at the confusion of listening to a joke which he wasn't a part of. He wondered how rude it would be if he ignored them and went back to his meant-to-be-highschool level essay. Before he could however, Laurens was already explaining:

"Y'know a kid named Aaron Burr?"

James shrugged. He was pretty sure he'd heard the name before. Maybe he'd passed him in the hallways once or twice.

"Alright, so, we went up and introduced ourselves to him. And he takes one look at Alex and goes--" (here Laurens adopted a very somber expression and deep voice) "--'You want some advice? You should talk less and smile more. Don't let people know what you're against or what you're for.'"

Alexander was still laughing. "It rhymed and everything."

James smiled a little. That didn't sound like too bad advice to him, but imagining these loud-mouthed bothers attempting to put it into practice  _was_ pretty funny.

"Anyway," Alexander continued. "Nice meeting you. Maybe we can hang out again sometime in the future. Write some essays together or something."

"You like to write?"

Alexander smiled. It was a small smile, more contained, the smile of someone who'd just been asked about his secret passion and was trying not to let on just how happy they were. It made James feel a familiar tug in his heart... a tug that had been missing ever since Thomas had left.

"Writing is one of the only things in life I can control. When I put my pen to paper, or my fingers to keys, I'm in charge for once. I can shape words as I want. I can build palaces, cathedrals-- better men have even made empires rise and fall. But you probably didn't want to hear all that, so to answer your question simply: Yes. I _love_ to write."

"Hey, Alex," Laurens interrupted, "come on. There's another kid over there that we don't know." Alexander reluctantly let himself be helped up, his gaze locked on James's intensely.

James was starting to understand what Laurens saw in him.

"Jesus, John, gimme a second to say bye to Madison."

"Bye," James said. Wishing he knew the right words to get him to stay and talk some more-- preferably about writing.

Alexander laughed. "When I said 'to say bye', I didn't mean it literally. Come on, Madison. You write these three page essays on a topic you won't cover in two more years, but you can't think of a better way to send someone off?" 

"See you later?"

Alexander shook his head. "Till we meet again."

James started to return the sendoff, but Laurens had already pulled Alexander away, laughing as he turned the conversation back to some other event that had happened earlier on in the cafeteria. 

James looked back down at his essay. He was almost finished. And then what?

It was a free-time essay. He hadn't really had any reason to write it-- he just did. Writing and reading helped take his mind off of Thomas, and loneliness, and boredom. He usually turned these essays in for extra credit, but his grades were already all A+s.

If Thomas was here...

But he wasn't. Thomas was gone, across the world in his home-country. Probably making lots of new friends and enjoying himself.

James picked up a pen, adjusted his paper, and after a moment of hesitation, scratched a dedication across the top.

_To Alexander Hamilton. Since you liked it. Looking forwards to working with you sometime._

Then he signed it.

_\- Madison._

_~*~_


	4. Middle School (8th)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anyone up for haMMADS ? ??  
> *crashes down door*  
> FE DE R A L I ST PAPERS BOIIIIII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so I am on a ROLL with this fic.  
> It's going to turn out to be many more chapters than I'd originally estimated, but I'm guessing you guys won't mind? Sorry, but I need to focus some more on my beloved HamMads before I can bring back TJeffs. Y'know. Romantic plot-twist stuff. And after that, I also need to find some clever way to insert the Cabinet Battles, the Reynolds Pamphlet, Lams, the Angelica/Jefferson friendship, the Laurens/Madison friendship...  
> And I have to do all this from Madison's perspective -w-''  
> In conclusion, this fic is c r a m m e d with ideas for me to do, and it might take me a while to get to the actual JeffMads I know you all want to see.  
> Just... bear with me.  
> (Also ignore any confusing political stuff. I have no idea what I'm doing anymore.)  
> Comments are better than kudos, and appreciated! <3
> 
> -Georgie

Having Alexander Hamilton in your class was like having a siren next to your ear.

It distracted you, alerted you of its presence, made itself impossible to be ignored. Unlike a siren however, it also made you giddy watching it go. From the moment Alexander had sat down, his mouth was already running, and woe befall the poor teacher caught in its crossfire.

"We should really focus more on the socioeconomic trends of the 15th century--"

"Shouldn't the exam be worth 150 points instead of just 100? Judging by the three essays we're going to be writing--"

"What do you mean, there'll be no extra credit on the test? Is that even--"

Alexander Hamilton had opinions, and damn right was he going to share them. Over 7th grade's remaining course, he went from 'loudmouth new scholarship kid' to 'loudmouth school justice warrior.' And always with John Laurens by his side.

Madison watched him with a mixture of awe and apprehension. He wanted so badly to go up to him, drag him back to his seat, teach him the importance of letting your thoughts stay thoughts-- in the long run, you might be able to use them as weapons, but if you gave away too much too fast, you'd lose it all. Yet at the same time he wanted to grab him by the shoulders and ask him how he _did_ it all.

 _Make yourself seem unavailable_ , advised the dating columns of his sister's magazines. _Don't look desperate; let him come to you._ Maybe a dating magazine wasn't the best source of advice. It wasn't like Madison wanted to  _date_ Alexander or anything. No way. Definitely not. He wasn't interested _that_ way. Laurens might be though...

Madison never took much interest in other peoples preferences. For all he knew, maybe Alexander and Laurens were already an item. But so young? They were only in eighth grade. Wasn't a person supposed to realize which way they... um... _swung_ , in like high-school?

Anyway.

He'd tried explaining his problem to some of his sisters, but wasn't sure if he'd gotten the point across correctly. How did a person explain that they really wanted to talk to someone because of shared common interests, and because having them there reminded them of a third person whom they were totally still not missing, while trying not to notice the nudge of possible romantic compatibility which they were definitely not interested in, emphasis on definitely?

Or, to be more precise, how did a person approach them?

With no better option in sight, Madison was forced to take the magazine's advice.  _Make yourself seem unavailable. Don't look desperate; let him come to you._ Sure, he waved at Alexander when he saw him, but refused to initiate any sort of meaningful meetup.

_It's up to Hamilton._

~*~

It was mid-8th grade when all of Madison's diligent avoiding was rewarded.

He was at his locker, stocking up on books for his next class when he suddenly felt a tap on his shoulder. 

"Hey, Madison, remember me?"

"Remember?" Madison scoffed, turning around. "How could I forget?"

Alexander laughed sheepishly. "Yeah, I guess I haven't been very low-key. So much for 'talk less, smile more.'''

Madison felt a smile creep up on his lips, the small but genuine kind only Alexander ( ~~and Thomas~~ ) seemed to be able to pull out of him. "You took that advice and you raked it through the mud."

Alexander laughed again. His eyes crinkled when he did. Madison tried not to notice. 

"So," Alexander continued after a moment. "I read your paper on the fall of Constantinople."

Madison coughed. A little nervously. "And?"

"And what? The writing was fluid, emotion was conveyed, points were explained. I liked it."

Madison coughed again. More from surprise this time. "Oh?"

"Yeah. You're good." A smile played on Alexander's lips. "I mean, I disagreed with some of your ideas, but you still handled them really well."

"That's nice of you to say."

"That's nice of me to _mean._ "

"I'm glad you liked it."

"I'm glad you _wrote_ it."

Madison hoped he wasn't turning red. It wasn't like Alexander was flirting or anything. Madison shared enough classes with him to know that charm and wit peppered his every other word. It was just...

Ugh. Damn Madison and his stupid vulnerability to attractive boys and honeyed comments.

(*Attractive _people_.)

(*The word 'attractive' being used in a strictly platonic sense.)

"Where's Laurens?" he finally asked. Alexander shrugged, but Madison noticed the tension that pricked his shoulders and straightened his spine.

"Hell if I know. Probably helping a turtle cross the road or something."

"A turtle?"

"Yeah." Alexander's posture might have stiffened, but his voice had softened. "He's got a mania with them. Man, you should see the drawings he does. It's turtles, turtles, turtles, back to front. They're good pictures, too. John's got just as much talent with art as you've got with writing."

Madison, whose stomach had started to clench at the flattery of Laurens, smiled.

"Actually," Alexander continued, "writing's the reason I'm here to begin with."

"Yes, you told me. You read my paper--"

"No, not just that." Alexander glanced at the clock hanging overhead, and Madison followed suit. 1:53 pm. Fifteen minutes until their next class. "Remember last year when I said that maybe we could work together on an essay sometime?"

Madison nodded. He remembered that afternoon. He might just remember that afternoon for the rest of his days.

"Yeah, well, 'sometime' became 'now.' I'm writing these essays on how having a strong central student council instead of just different clubs controlling the money they individually got from bake sales and such might help bring a sense of unity amongst classmates as well as keep all the money earned in one place. Are you in?"

Madison blinked. "Care to repeat?"

"No time. Class starts in like eight minutes. I just need a yes or no answer: Are you in for helping me write a bunch of papers on the possible foundation of a student council? I'll text you more details later if you're up to it."

Madison hesitated only for a moment. "Sure." 

Alexander beamed, and clapped him on the shoulder. "Awesome! Thanks a ton, Madison. With my ideas and your writing skills, we'll definitely get our plan through!"

" _Your_ plan. I don't know what it is."

Alexander grinned, and in his eyes Madison could see a flicker of something. A spark; soon to be fanned into a flame. "Not yet, you mean. I'll text it to you. Man, we're going to be like Socrates, throwing verbal rocks at mediocrities. They'll never feel so helpless!"

"Are we competing with someone?"

"Oh, not yet. But as for next year, I've heard rumors."

Alexander didn't expand on the 'rumors.' Madison didn't ask him to. He was too busy reflecting on what he'd gotten himself in: far from not letting his opinions be known until the right moment, he'd just chosen a side in the race's very start. What an idiot.

Then Alexander clapped him on the shoulder again, and it was all Madison could do to not melt. "I'll see you later, Madison. History class." 

"Yeah. Bye."

"'Till we meet again!"

Madison smiled as Alexander bolted off, pushing aside several students in his attempt to be the first at the door. Alexander moved with purpose: everything he said, everything he did was done with deliberation, no words or actions wasted. 

What made it so appealing?

He sighed as he picked up his books and closed his locker. At least he knew one thing for sure now.

Those next year opponents weren't the only ones helpless.

 ~*~


End file.
